


Like Sleep To The Freezing

by atouchofprocrastination



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sleep Deprivation, crowley upon entering the hotel room and miracling the beds together- "oh NO there's only ONE BED-"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 05:10:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20860787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atouchofprocrastination/pseuds/atouchofprocrastination
Summary: Five times Aziraphale found Crowley sleeping in increasingly unlikely places, and one time he joined him.1: Wine2: Reservations3: Sun4: Fire5: Film+1: AFTER





	Like Sleep To The Freezing

**Author's Note:**

> I had one idea to write a stand alone thing for what turned into chapter two, and it just spiralled from there. The chapters are in a sort of vague chronological order (even though the only chapters that are really connected are 5 and +1, and even then that just means foreshadowing lmao), but you definitely don't have to read the chapters in order. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**1**

"_Ughh,_" Crowley groaned, and collapsed face first onto Aziraphale's sofa. "Why does being drunk always make me so tired? _ Ssss_wear it never used it. Guess 6000 years of being alive is finally- _ hic _-f'nally gettin’ to me--” He shoved his head back up to fix Aziraphale with a bleary look. "Wait. N- That- Tha’ can’t be right. Wha' time izit?"

Aziraphale spinned to look out the window, as if the dark streets could tell him anything past _ it's nighttime, you idiot, use a clock. _ He does, squinting at his watch for a few moments, before settling on a time. "It…'s… Half three, probably. Late." 

Crowley groaned again, loudly, and Aziraphale knew his own body was too drunk when he started finding the idea of sleep as appealing as Crowley apparently currently was. Without another thought he willed the alcohol out of his blood stream, wincing and staggering a considerable amount in the aftermath. They'd drank a _ lot _, much more than usual for some reason Aziraphale couldn't quite remember yet, as evidenced by his own shakiness and Crowley, still mumbling drunkenly into the sofa cushions. 

"I _ sss__hould_ p'rbly go." Aziraphale just caught from the direction of the sofa. Then, some more incoherent mumbles, involving what Aziraphale thinks he hears as being 'drive', 'comfy', and 'thwarting'*.

*He'd be surprising if Crowley had actually managed to pronounce that one right, since he was having seemingly immense difficulty with stringing together five word sentences and not slipping into a mess of hissing sibilance every fifteen seconds. Also, what major acts of good he thought he could stop Aziraphale doing at three in the morning was completely lost on the angel.

From a few paces away, Aziraphale started collecting up now half filled wine bottles. "I'd suggest you sober up before driving home, my dear."

Crowley whined, then yanked himself up into a half sitting position suddenly, and Aziraphale paused to watch him in amusement. Crowley took an unsteady moment to ready himself, then blew out a breath with the force and unpleasantness of forcing the alcohol out of his body. He shuddered dramatically and fell back down with another groan. "Halfway there." He mumbled. "Half drunk is b'sic'lly the same as… as not dr-unk at all, yeah?"*

*Due to the sheer amount that they’d drank, Crowley’s version of ‘half drunk’ was still almost 95% intoxicated in regular standards; leaving his lazily hopeful question much like his current faith in his ability to walk straight- a completely nul point. 

Aziraphale watched his totally boneless form on the sofa for another moment before turning away to slide the bottles neatly onto a table. "I can hail a taxi for you, if you like? Or I could drive? I've seen you do it enough times before so I doubt I'd be able to muck it up that badly…" 

His voice trailed off as he glanced back at the demon sprawled haphazardly over his sofa. Crowley’s breathing had dropped to a more even degree, limbs somehow more relaxed, and Aziraphale knew it was fruitless. Still, he tried a soft, "Crowley, my dear?" before tsking affectionately at the silent heap and waving a blanket over him. It _ was _dreadfully late, after all, and if Crowley couldn’t even miracle himself fully sober he must have really been feeling the effects of their little celebration. Aziraphale settled on not dwelling on it anymore, made sure the shop front was locked up, then disappeared off into the back for cocoa and some much needed Oscar Wilde novels. 

  
  


**2**

Crowley was late.

That wasn’t a completely unheard of event, certainly not to anyone Crowley has had relations with over the years, and certainly not to Aziraphale. It was just-- Crowley had _ promised _ that he would be right on time for their 1:30pm reservation, and despite whatever demonic nature Crowley still possessed, Aziraphale knew he did his best to uphold promises. It set Aziraphale on edge, not knowing where Crowley was when he knew very well that it wasn’t where he _ should _be.*

*The fact that the ‘where’ in ‘where Crowley should be’ nine times out of ten means _ with Aziraphale _shouldn’t be played much mind. Unfortunately, Aziraphale is horrible at not overthinking.

It was a nice day- what Aziraphale would call a _ lovely _day, actually, all sunshine and stifling British summertime heat- and he’d already been sat at their reserved table for 20 minutes after Crowley had made a point of saying that he’d show up exactly on time, so what was the harm in leaving now? Maybe Aziraphale could walk to Crowley’s flat to check if he were there, enjoy the sun a bit, perform some minor angelic miracles. Yes, that all sounded rather productive of him, he’d thought, stepping out of the ambient restaurant light and into the buttery gold sunlight and mid-July heat; much more proactive than calling.

10 minutes later, Aziraphale had let himself into Crowley’s flat and stood, wide eyed in vague horror, in Crowley’s living room. "Do you usually sleep on- on the _ ceiling?" _Aziraphale choked, wishing very much that proactiveness wasn’t an angelic drive and he’d just done the normal thing and _ called_, my God, why didn’t he just _ call_-

Crowley opened one eye to glare at him. "Why on earth would I sleep on the ceiling every night when I have a perfectly comfortable bed in the next room?"

Aziraphale made a strangled noise that he hoped was translatable as _Yes! An excellent_ _question!_ He blinked and tried to reign himself back in. "Crowley, dear boy, _what_ _are you doing on the ceiling?"_

Crowley opened both eyes in exasperation. "I couldn't sleep until, like, four in the morning, and-" he grunted as he does something Aziraphale couldn’t not call _ peeling _ himself from the plaster, until his hands were laid flat on the ceiling and his legs dangled down like some badly executed magic trick. He fell onto his feet lithely, giving Aziraphale a look. "That was the most comfortable place I could find. What's so weird about that?" 

Aziraphale was suddenly very grateful that he doesn't sleep, because he was sure he'd be having nightmares about this.

Crowley was still looking at him funny, but elected to just brush past him into his bedroom. “Bats do it all the time.” Crowley reminded him, as if that answered anything. “How’s this any different?”

Aziraphale had followed him, and now stood at the threshold of the room, watching Crowley pull out clothes from a dresser. “You aren’t a bat.” And _ Oh, Lord in Heaven_, that really was not something Aziraphale ever thought he’d have to say.

Crowley waved a hand dismissively, and when the gesture is complete his hair was suddenly tamer; a messy little _ flick _of it at the front. “Eh, bats and snakes are basically the same animals, anyway.”

Aziraphale blinked. Blinked again. Wondered how his life has been allowed to get _ here _, in Crowley’s bedroom, at 2pm on a Tuesday, with the discussion topic being whether certain animals are interchangeable based on their ability to sleep in ways that freak Aziraphale out.

Crowley rounded on him, and Aziraphale realised that he’s fully dressed. He pulled a pair of sunglasses from a drawer in a table next to the door. “I’m sorry that I missed our reservations; I think I must have forgotten to miracle the alarm fixed again after last week.*” He had the good sense to look sheepish, and Aziraphale softened a little. “Though, I do believe a last minute booking at _ Barrafina _would be acceptable, if you’re interested?”

*There had been An Incident last week, pertaining to the aforementioned alarm clock in Crowley’s bedroom, a very drunk Crowley, and a terrible idea involving electrical appliances and malt whiskey that Crowley is still a little convinced was genius, just incredibly poorly (drunkenly, manically) executed. Aziraphale won't comment on this matter, though secretly (albeit in the same drunken, manic state) agreed with him.

Aziraphale brightened significantly at the idea and nodded, banishing lingering images of monsters chittering up brick and crouching low, inverted, on pale ceilings from his mind.*

*As Crowley, and by extension, Aziraphale, had figured out a long time ago, there is no being better for thinking up evil than humans. This lovely little ability coupled with enough curiosity and perseverance had given them the horror film industry. Which, if Aziraphale was being completely fair, was entirely fascinating in it’s own right, and showed just how clever humanity really could be when given the right resources. However, it was very hard to be completely fair when Aziraphale had been subjected to a number of these films himself, and found himself helplessly, ridiculously scared after every one. Even Crowley seemed unnerved by them, which, to Aziraphale, just increased the irony of finding him flattened out on the ceiling like a- well, like a _ demon_, tenfold. 

“But if your head starts spinning around, you’re paying the bill and buying that bottle of ‘85 Merlot we were looking on Friday night.” He muttered, leading the other out of the flat with an indignant huff, and Crowley grinned.

  
  


**3**

When Aziraphale unlocked his shop and stepped inside he was in the middle of making a to-do list in his head*, admittedly mainly about herbal teas and a meeting scheduled with Crowley and not much else, and was thoroughly wrapped up in his own thoughts. He gave the store a quick glance before turning and securing the little placard at the window to show that _ We are most definitely _ ** _closed _ ** _ for business at this moment! _ and contentedly noted the sunlight streaming in through recently cleaned windows. Crowley had convinced him, while he did love lurking in the self inflicted shadows of the backroom of the bookshop and while the dimness did help in encouraging customers out, that maybe Aziraphale would be able to actually read his books without having to employ candles or lamps if he removed a few layers of dust and grime from the display windows. He had been hesitant at first, but now, as he stood in the streaky sun and hung his coat, he did have to commend Crowley for the idea. The room was practically _ glowing. _

*Both he and Crowley had taken credit for the creation of them, on the account of the prospect to simultaneously relax and organise one person and throw another into a spiral of procrastination and guilt. Aziraphale was a model example of the former, and quite enjoyed making lists of accomplish-ready tasks (even if most of his lists were comprised of items such as ‘try out that new bakery across from the shop’, ‘reorganise the Greek classics section’, and ‘distract yourself from thinking about the impending apocalypse and end of all human civilisation’. He never could quite check off that last one).

He added ‘find a way to repay Crowley’ to his list, and wandered into the kitchen to make tea. At least, that’s what he _ tried _to do; instead, he found himself stood in between the two looming bookcases which announced the threshold of the corner of the bookshop devoted to comfy seating, staring at a certain demon napping on his floor. 

He was half slumped against an armchair in what would be an incredibly uncomfortable position for any human, back propped up by the face of the arm and legs sprawled out before him. A large rectangle of light lay blanketed over his form from the ankles up, saffron coloured and solid, and stretched up across the majority of the little room. As he watched, Crowley’s feet shifted slightly in his sleep and were drawn up back into the box of warmth surrounding him, and he curled more into himself, head of burnt bronze curls nestled against a shoulder languidly. 

It’s not like this was a scene that should’ve shocked Aziraphale - Crowley, in his bookshop, engaged in some demonic activity/sleeping - it was more the fact that he couldn’t stop himself from immediately comparing him to a house cat sunning themselves by a window. Aziraphale smiled, moved to step past him towards the kitchen, and Crowley stirred. 

“Hm,” Crowley said articulately, and stretched out with a yawn, rolling his head so it fell listlessly onto a sofa cushion. He eyed Aziraphale, took in his all-over-too-fond expression with a sleepy frown. “Hey, ‘Ziraphale.”

“Hello.” He felt himself smile again. “I must say, sleeping on that chair may be slightly more comfortable than on the hard floor, my dear.”

“Oh.” Crowley picked his head back up and glanced around himself. After a moment he curled back into himself lazily. “Nah, ‘S warmer down here.”

_ Ah_. That did seem to be a rather strong motivator for Crowley, regardless of situation. 

Aziraphale huffed out a laugh, and turned back to the kitchen. “Tea?”

“No thanks.” Crowley got past another jutting yawn, and he took a few indulgent seconds to stretch his back out and admire the almost shimmering quality of the bookshop in the liquid sunlight. Dust motes, newly sun bleached floors. A sunny motion line of blurry blonde hair as Aziraphale bustled about the kitchen. The light being thrown into the room that he was currently lain in had shifted considerably since he fell asleep, and he regarded the encroaching line of shadow edging it’s way closer to him with distaste. Outside, a group of people waltzed past the shop and cast a pool of colder shadow across Crowley for a second*, and he shuddered.

*He considered reinstating himself properly as resident demon and willing the people to trip or lose their wallets or something of that calibre, but quickly dismissed it in favour of recollecting himself and attempting to scout out another cosy spot to surrender his conscious to for a few more hours. 

Aziraphale walked back out of the kitchen, tea in hand, and gave Crowley an amused look. Crowley blew out a breath in over dramatised annoyance.

“I haven’t slept in three days. _ Three days_, Aziraphale. ‘S not my fault you actually listened to me and,” He gestured vaguely around the shop, just stopping himself from saying something entirely embarrassing like _ and made your shop so comfy and warm_. “And made it semi habitable in here. What d’you expect me to do?” 

Aziraphale took a seat on the sofa across from him and hid his smile behind a steaming cup of peppermint tea. He decided not to comment on the fact that Crowley had a perfectly fine bed in his own flat; one he’s sure must be softer than Aziraphale’s ancient hardwood floors and probably comes with many other… _ favourable _features. Instead, he said, “How did you even get in?”

“The shop always opens for me, angel, you know that.” And it would seem that Crowley had hit his semi coherent conversation quota for the day, because before he could even finish his sentence he was rubbing a bleary hand over his face and coiling his legs back up against his body. He twisted to look up to the armchair. The sunlight had shifted up and was now bathing the cushions in a watery, mid afternoon stream of light, and Crowley let out a breath. Without any further explanation or comment, he wrenched himself up into a half-way standing position, promptly collapsed into the sun-warmed chair, and curled up with a contented sigh. 

The pair stayed in the knot of chairs for hours afterwards, Crowley dozing still despite the dwindling heat of the now threadbare, early dusk light, and Aziraphale in the chair opposite with an almost comical amount of tea coming out of one supposedly 8oz mug, and Aziraphale came that much closer to forgetting (for now) about Armageddon. 

  
  


**4**

The next time Aziraphale came into his bookshop after a long day of cafes and festivity-based miracles, it was snowing and the streets of Soho were completely frigid with it. Frost was hanging in the air, and all the little ornate details of Aziraphale's shop front had been layered with intricate spider-webbed ice and, much to his chagrin, had managed to convince the door knob and rusted hinges to stick. 

After an embarrassing amount of time spent wiggling and tugging the door (embarrassing because he only remembers that he has the ability to miracle it open in half a second after he’d gotten the door open), he stumbled into the shop, cheeks flushed and tingling in the sudden heat. The room was wondrously toasty, almost unusually so, but Aziraphale just accounted it to the contrast from the chilly winter air and focused on pulling off his sodden coat and scarf* and sliding out of his boots. 

*It had been a (very surprising) gift from Crowley several Christmases ago. He’d gotten very drunk the night before, panicked when he realised that he hadn’t gotten Aziraphale a gift despite his complete disregard for gift-giving holidays, and had taken it upon himself to hand knit him a thick strip of wool that you could call a scarf if you squinted quite considerably. He’d still been relatively drunk when he showed up at the bookshop in the early hours of Christmas morning and presented an utterly delighted Aziraphale with it. Now, having the foresight and renewed dignity of sobriety, Crowley viciously denies this ever happening. 

There was a jacket laying on his sofa. A familiar black reefer one bundled into a tangled knot at the torso, sleeves thrown out by its side in an almost reverent looking display, though Aziraphale knew that couldn’t be right. All around very odd, considering he could not think of a single reason Crowley would be laying out his clothes in such a manner, especially around his bookshop.

“Are you back there, dear?”  
  


There was no response, and Aziraphale started back in the direction of the main store room and- _ oh, _the fireplace had been lit, which explained the heady, almost too-warm air, and was a sure sign that Crowley was skulking around somewhere close. He scanned the room.

“Crowley?”

_ Aziraphale. _

He frowned harder, shivering despite himself at the voice sliding into the forefront of his mind. It had been a long time since Aziraphale had seen or heard Crowley in his serpentine form, always tending to associate massive injury or upset at the appearance of the snake*, and he s_ till _couldn’t see where Crowley was, which set him on edge. He took a hesitant step closer to the fire on instinct when a clear solution didn’t immediately reveal itself, fingers still a little numb from cold despite now being clasped together worriedly over his chest.

*This was largely because, aside from his time spent in Eden, Aziraphale had only ever seen Crowley manifest himself as a snake a small handful of times, and every single one of these times had been in response to Crowley being so badly injured he was nearly discorperated, or due to century long hibernations. Crowley had explained it once that it was like a protective instinct and a natural healer all rolled into one; it was the evolutionary equivalent of his mortal body going ‘fuck this, I’m out’ and surrendering itself to living as a snake for the foreseeable future while it fixed itself.

_ Hi. _

Was it just his imagination, or was the voice clearer? He cast around, confusion dulling some of his anxiety. “Where are you?”

_ In the fireplace. _ The voice says pleasantly. _ You woke me up, by the way, and I’m very annoyed. _

“In the- You’re _ what? _ ” Aziraphale, who had been slowly turning on the spot in a slightly misguided attempt at finding Crowley, whirled around to face the blazing fireplace. He stared into the fire and, sure enough, after a second could just make out a mess of green scales and a pair of slitted yellow eyes staring at him through several flickery curtains of butter coloured flame. “_Crowley! _”

Aziraphale couldn’t decide where the accusation in his tone was coming from exactly; though, probably the same place that was telling him that this is one of the most ridiculous things he’s ever found Crowley doing because_ oh, good Lord, he’s in the bloody fire, Crowley is sat in the fire- _

A laugh ghosted through Aziraphale’s mind, effectively cutting off his apparently very obvious spiralling. 

_ Relax! I just got caught outside in all that dreadful snow and ended up at the shop. But when I realised you were out, and your bloody shop was freezing - I literally could not feel any difference from here and outside, you're aware of how ridiculous that is, right? - Well, I just sort of. Ended up here. _

Another laugh, and Aziraphale wondered how he managed to sound like he was hissing without any of the necessary syllables. He dropped down in front of the demon. 

“In the fireplace.” Aziraphale finished slowly, trying to decide whether to be more worried or amused at the whole situation. Crowley blinked up at him slowly and wiggled around a bit in the flames, seemingly quite contented, and Aziraphale went with the latter.

_ Really, you can't blame me. What kind of person living in the 21st century doesn't have at least one form of electric heating? I mean, honestly, angel, this whole thing could’ve been avoided if you’d stopped living like it’s still the 1800’s. The century’s over, for Hell’s sake, move on! _

Aziraphale pressed his lips together to stifle a laugh. Despite his best efforts, there was no way Crowley could sound as indignant as he clearly wanted to when he was nestled into a little ball in the centre of the waning flames in a bookshop fireplace. “I’m terribly sorry, my dear.” His eyes danced in the light and Crowley suspected that he was really rather not. “Couldn’t you have just miracled a heater? Or perhaps a warmer coat? Something, at least, that would leave getting into the fire as a last resort?”

Crowley gave his best impression of a huff. _ Cold messes with my miracles. _ A pause, then a self conscious hiss. _ Couldn’t even stop myself from switching forms, ‘Ziraphale. _

Aziraphale frowned again, this time sympathetically. After half a second of thought, he turned to glance around the shop, willing a pile of fluffy blankets and pillows into existence on the sofa. “At least get out of the fire.” He murmured. A pointed look is directed at the flames and in the next second it was flickering out obediently.

Crowley hissed reproachfully at the sudden drop in temperature, and managed to carry on looking pissed off even as he slithered miserably over to Aziraphale and winded himself into a ball in the angel’s lap. He was rewarded with the pad of the other’s thumb being dragged gently down the top of his head in a satisfying little scritching motion, and he wrapped his bottom half securely around Aziraphale’s leg.

Behind them, several trays of assorted candles had been willed into the shop and lit to very conveniently give off just as much heat as the fire had, and Aziraphale gingerly extracted Crowley from around him in favour of walking back a few places and dumping him unceremoniously into the nest of blankets on the sofa. Another reproachful hiss that Aziraphale promptly ignored, and he picked up one of the classics he was currently rereading from a desk, settling himself next to Crowley on the sofa with a contented sigh.

He’d gotten not half a page into the book when something shifted against his leg and he looked down to see a seemingly unabashed Crowley wriggling his way back onto Aziraphale’s lap. He watched him for a moment, smiling. 

“What are you doing?”

_ You’re warmer, _Crowley mumbled, effectively hiding his face* by digging himself further against Aziraphale’s stomach. 

*Could snakes blush? Or, more accurately, could demons posing usually as humans but occasionally as giant gossamer snakes blush?

Aziraphale just hummed and tugged one of the blankets from the pile next to him over his legs and as much of Crowley as he could see, taking his book back up as he felt Crowley settle completely, sandwiched complacently between the thick down comforter and Aziraphale’s thigh. Something which he thinks was supposed to be thanks but sounded more like random hissing poked at the front of his mind, and Aziraphale smiled again. He scanned his page to find where he’d left off, and started reading again;

_ ‘You may have seen the spangled palaces of sin and fancy dancing in the false West of the movies, and maybe some of them existed…’ _

  
  


**5**

When Crowley woke, it was to a quiet but incredibly annoying bustle of movement around him, and the theatre’s overhead lights being pulled back up. And, wow, they’re _ bright_, especially since Crowley had horribly misjudged how long he’d get to sleep for and definitely wasn’t ready to be fully conscious yet. 

He realised maybe a little bit belatedly that his head was on someone’s shoulder. He was pretty sure it was Aziraphale,* but with his luck he’d passed out on some stranger too scared to disturb him or tell him to fuck off, so he craned his neck up to check. In almost comedic timing, the lights brightened an insulting degree and he promptly gave up and borrowed his head back into the person’s (Aziraphale’s?) neck with a low whine. 

*because for one he recognised the cologne paired with a distant scent of soft clean skin, and because he doesn’t think that he’s yet to meet anyone else in this century still wearing those ridiculous cream coloured antique coats Aziraphale is so fond of.

The body under him shuddered with a short laugh. “You know,” Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley relaxed (giving himself a second to ask what the fuck kind of trust he just put into his ability to identify Aziraphale through _ scent, _ for Satan’s sake). “I don’t think we’ve ever been to the pictures and had you stay awake through the whole showing.”

“Tha’s not true.” Crowley mumbled into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Shakespeare was good. Stayed awake through most of those.”

Aziraphale scratched his nails over the short hairs at the nape of his neck and Crowley sighed sleepily. “Mostly the comedies, though.” He reminded him, smile evident in his voice.

“We’ve got enough tragedy in our actual lives. Don’t need it in plays too.”

Aziraphale thought that was rather a good point, and let the subject drop. The theatre was completely empty now, and Aziraphale could feel the sharp _ tug _of the usher’s confusion as she hovered just outside the double doors to their right, wholeheartedly at a loss as to why she couldn’t seem to decide whether to go in or not. 

“Come on, my dear. We should be going.” 

He sat up and Crowley rolled his head away with an irritated hiss. Another few grumbling hisses later, and he had miracled himself a pair of sunglasses, and was sitting back in his seat, right ankle thrown over his leg. 

“Did they kill that-” He gestured vaguely around a yawn, then shoved his glasses on top of his head to rub at his eyes. “-angry sciency man in the end? And get to stay together… fighting crime? Or whatever it was that they were trying to do?”

Aziraphale’s lip twitched. “‘Sciency man’?”

“_Scientist, _then, if you want to be pedantic.”

The angel smiled. “Yes, they did. It was all rather heartfelt, actually. Well,” He corrected with half a frown, “the staying together part, not the killing part.”

Crowley snorted and got to his feet, stretching his back out indulgently. “On our way, then?”

They left the cinema* and started wandering back towards Soho, sun setting in a vibrant pink and orange blaze across the evening sky. Their shadows were thrown, long and slender, onto the pavement beside them, and Crowley watched distantly as they flickered across cracked slabs and dew soaked grass. 

*Aziraphale smiled at the poor girl he’d left floundering over the entrance of their theatre, and she finds later that a bank card she’d misplaced weeks ago miraculously finds itself in easy reach behind the back of her bookshelf.

“Did you get the see the end of the fight on the pier?” Aziraphale asked suddenly as they passed through St Anne’s Churchyard. “Where they fall into the sea and get separated through all the fire?”

Crowley shook his head but frowned and kept his eyeline locked on the ground anyway, an undeniable sense of great, dark foreboding suddenly washing over him.

Aziraphale continued, having seemingly not noticed. “Ah, well. Well I just- they thought each other had died and I-” He blew out a breath and wrung his hands. Crowley didn’t look up, heart beating awfully fast for some reason. “I’m sorry, my dear fellow, I’m not making much sense. I just meant that it got me thinking, because… I could never even imagine myself in that situation. It must feel terrible, thinking the person you’re closest with has- has just _ left you _ so suddenly. And so violently, too.”

Aziraphale just sounded so damn _ sad _ that Crowley’s eyes jerked up of their own volition, jumping to reassure him. There was something else, too- a heavy feeling sunk into the pit of his stomach- and it pulled at him viciously, desperate and panicked as a wild hare caught in a trap. “They’re not real, angel.” It was hard to speak around the lump in his throat, and Crowley sincerely wished they could change the subject. Neither attempted to. “They’re just characters.”

Aziraphale hummed in response and something settled in the air between them. Something big and scary and something that muttered _ so are you, you know _into the cold early autumn wind. Crowley shivered and scooted a little closer to Aziraphale’s side. Aziraphale reached over reflexively and took one of his hands, setting to work rubbing some warmth back into it, very grateful for the excuse to huddle closer together. 

They walked in silence the rest of the way back, pressed shoulder to shoulder behind the guise of Crowley feeling frigid from the cold* and Aziraphale not quite paying attention to how close they’re walking, distracting themselves with the thought of the warm, safe bookshop and a few hours of good sleep on the demon’s part. Above all else right now, Crowley needed a drink.

*He did feel uncomfortably chilled, but for once that wasn’t down to his cold blooded nature and abysmal circulation. No, he didn't really want to think about why he was shaking so much, and Aziraphale was more than alright with adopting the ‘don’t think about it until it goes away’ philosophy alongside him. The ineffable plan had no room for violent bouts of existentialism.

  
  


**+1**

Crowley stands in the threshold of the little bookshop, watching helplessly as the shelves and floorboards are caught in raging flames. The fire jolts and roars, leering up at him and douses his vision in a cacophony of heat and smoke and rust coloured light, and above the noise he thinks he hears Aziraphale. He blinks the revelation into focus, and the flames part in some horribly symbolic red sea metaphor so that he can make out the scene in front of him clearer and something is very, _ very _wrong. Through the air, shimmering with heat and drenched at the edges with black tar, he can just make out a figure crouched low next to a particularly malicious looking wall of flame that Crowley distantly recognises as one of Aziraphale’s Holy Books and Scriptures cabinets.

Aziraphale is on fire. 

With Crowley’s sudden notice of that specifically wrenching fact, the remaining flames lurch through him and converge on the shrieking, charred person in front of him. It’s wings burst from it’s back with a cry, and they catch like tissue paper, feathers crackling with the sound of damp kindling and vanishing in blinding flashes of blue fire. Crowley’s lungs feel slit open and he is distantly aware that he’s screaming.

He strains against his own legs but they stay locked in place in the doorway. He’s crying. Aziraphale is no longer Aziraphale but a ball of fiery, righteous, heavenly terror, and he’s _dying _and Crowley can’t do anything but watch, and he’s sure this can’t be part of the ineffable plan because how can God be this _cruel _and_-_

  
  


His vision went white, and he woke with a start. 

He was laying in one of the beds in the hotel room they’d chosen not an hour before, shaking and sweating and far too close to crying for his liking. Aziraphale had promised that he’d be close behind when Crowley had collapsed into a bed with a mumbled promise of sleeping solidly for the next week, and the room was almost pitch black, but- no, he was right, he couldn’t see Aziraphale. He paused for a second, tried to listen for any movement outside the bedroom, but his heart was beating too wildly to allow him the comfort, and he conceded to get up and check. 

He padded over to the door on shaky legs, pushing down irrational fear and amplified frustration at eyes that resolutely won’t adjust to the sudden darkness, and cracked it open. A thin stream of watery lamplight spills over the floors; the word ‘ignites’ pushed its way into his head and he blinked hard, shoving a hand through his hair and over his face before wrenching the door fully open and stepping out into the living room. 

The only light was coming from a large floor lamp hugging the wall on Crowley’s left, and Aziraphale was nowhere in sight. He was very aware of how still and silent the building felt, and with a lack of police sirens or drunken shouting outside* he was starting to feel a little bit like he’s trapped in some kind of liminal space. Feeling of unease mounting again, he slipped out of the living room and into the adjoining dining room.

*Of which is some of the most common place sounds in London, often no matter the time of day or weather, and the experience of these ambient noises inexplicably stopping can be likened to how you may feel if you were walking through a wood on a warm spring afternoon and, without warning, the bird song around you fell silent. For Crowley, he’d simply filtered out London’s specific flavour of proverbial bird song, and the manicness of late night city life became a sound that he never even really noticed until it was stripped away without apparent cause.

He found Aziraphale stood at the breakfast bar over a kettle and an empty mug, bright fluorescent bulbs overhead saturating his hair and making what little amount of skin Crowley could see from behind him look washed out and ill. Crowley shifted slightly against the door frame, unease only heightening and eyes still stinging in the light.

“‘Zira.”

Aziraphale startled, turning quickly to the direction the familiar voice came from. He squinted for a second and waited until his vision swam into focus to present him with a decidedly rumpled looking demon. “Oh, Crowley. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you get up. Did I wake you?*”

*This- considering the fact that Aziraphale had been up until this point stood stock-still for the better part of an hour in front of the silent kettle- would have been impossible, but he decided not to mention this. He’d been slowly working himself up into the same state Crowley is in now after restless sleep and a swift kick from the subconscious, not that he’s in any mind to really register that Crowley looks as wrecked as he feels. He’d be ashamed of himself if he could think about literally anything but the Almost End Of Everything.

Crowley shook his head slowly and Aziraphale gave him a tight smile, turning back to face the kettle again. Despite however many expectant looks it was given, it still wasn’t boiling, and Aziraphale doesn’t really understand why but the fact makes his eyes burn.

Crowley saw him take up the bowl of sugar next to the kettle. The kettle still wouldn’t boil. He frowned, “Aziraphale.”

He didn’t turn, and a teaspoon clattered against the rim of the still empty mug as Aziraphale spooned in sugar. His hands were shaking. He wasn’t really sure what he was doing.

Crowley was getting progressively worried, and everything felt like it’s being exacerbated by how exhausted he was, how he could see the bright line of the horizon slicing up the previous pitch black past the window, how Aziraphale wouldn't even look at him. “_Aziraphale._”

“Yes, dear?” His voice shook minutely along with his hands and he didn’t turn around. Another teaspoon of sugar went into the mug.

“Angel, please look at me.”

Crowley must have sounded as desperate as he felt because Aziraphale started again and turned back to face him in one motion. There were a couple beats of silence, both of them staring at the other, and suddenly the few metres separating them felt more like a gaping cavern than an innocent handful of cracked kitchen tiles. 

Crowley surged forward and wound his arms around Aziraphale tightly, knocking Aziraphale back a little with the force of it. He buried his face in the crook of the angel’s neck, pressing closer, and after several exhaustion-blurred seconds Aziraphale brought his own arms up to capture Crowley’s middle. Crowley has successfully hidden his eyes away from the bright lights and hoped, somewhat directionless, that the same approach could be taken for other elements of his existence*. 

*Examples included, hiding away from God’s prying eyes, Heaven and Hell’s malice, Crowley’s own unabatable terror, etc. His current attempts were yet to yield great success. 

Aziraphale felt Crowley shudder a breath against his neck, and when he spoke, his voice was threadbare and thin.

“Come to bed, angel.”

Aziraphale pulled back a fraction. Crowley’s eyes looked like liquid amber and were possibly the most sincere thing Aziraphale has ever seen in his life, and something bright and heavy railed through his chest. He stared at Crowley for a beat, taking in fully the pale, lacklustre quality of his skin; his eyes, alien and pretty in the obtrusive light but dampened by how bloodshot they were starting to become; how Crowley’s fingers dug into his jacket and waistcoat. A remark about beds or sides or something else entirely unimportant died on his tongue, and Aziraphale regarded Crowley with what he suspected was much the same vulnerable, slightly manic look that he was currently being fixed with himself. Aziraphale nodded mutely, exhausted and scared and _ something else _ which he supposed there isn't really a word for but mostly involves a sense of simultaneous massive climax and anticlimax following what was going to be the apocalypse, and allowed himself to be pulled out of the kitchen. Crowley exhaled, and the light flickered out behind him.

Aziraphale didn’t comment when Crowley glanced at the two single beds, making them slide together and coalesce into one king*, privately very grateful. He’d never been one for sleeping anyway, and the exhaustion clawing its way over him was unnerving enough. He didn’t know what he’d do if he had to sleep the events of the day off in a solitary, silent, pitch black corner of the little room in his own small, cold bed, but he suspected it may involve the proverbial breaking of the camel’s back.**

*He also didn’t comment on the fact that the bed was covered by a duvet proudly showing a repeated pattern of little wings, halos, and horns that he was certain neither bed held before, or that a pair of neatly folded tartan pyjamas had appeared on the edge of the bed closest to Aziraphale. 

**And he’d much rather all his metaphorical camels be well cared for and not forced to bear such horrendous weights- such as the weight of nearly being obliterated and the world nearly ending- if he could help it, thank you very much.

“Zira.” Crowley mumbled again, and Aziraphale’s gaze jumped up to meet his. Crowley had already rolled into bed and was now propping himself up somewhat weakly by the elbows, staring at Aziraphale expectantly.

“Yes, of course.” He murmured, hardly having the energy himself to be apologetic. He also, thankfully, didn’t have the energy to over analyse the prospect of sharing a bed with the demon after millennia of burying feelings and constantly checking over his shoulder, half expecting God herself to materialise at any moment and smite him, so he just stripped off his jacket and shoes and made himself a neat pile of clothes by the bedside table. After all, it was hardly the night to be delving into such things. 

Without another thought, he snapped the pyjamas on and the rest of his clothes folded with the other articles, and slumped into the bed. The overhead light clicked off, and he was left watching Crowley’s profile in the darkness, still but painfully awake. 

From his position glowering up at the ceiling, Crowley looked to be composed entirely of sharp angles and harsh, tired lines, and Aziraphale had the inexplicable urge to reach over and smooth a hand over his cheek. As it is, he tucked an arm under himself more securely and blinked at him. “Are you alright, my dear?”

Crowley closed his eyes and something blurred by darkness flashed across his face. Aziraphale winced and immediately started backpedalling. “I know, I’m sorry, that’s a stupid question-”

Crowley turned his head. He hates the darkness, hates how vulnerable it makes him feel. In that second what he hated most about it is that he could only make out half of Aziraphale’s face, and even his clearer features looked chalky black, hazy and ruined. _ Charred_.

Before he knew what he was doing he was shifting his body and slotting it firmly against Aziraphale’s. A quiet exhalation, a shaky inhale, then- whisper quiet, skin against skin, water on burning embers, “_I thought I lost you_.”

And Aziraphale, with his fingers buried in Crowley’s hair and relief at the fact they can hold each other without the world ending sparking in his chest, blinked heavily and misinterpreted. “The world didn’t end.” He mumbled, eyes glazing as he stared, unseeing, out of the window on Crowley’s side. “Nothing came of it. You didn’t lose me, and I didn’t-” _ too much to bear thinking about. _“-lose you.”

Crowley sniffled and curled a little more into Aziraphale. “I know, but- just. S’ much fire… I couldn’t find you, Aziraphale, and- and- there was fire _ everywhere_, Aziraphale… all your books, and-”

Crowley cut himself off just in time to feel Aziraphale choke on a breath, sleepy, painfully sharp realisation dawning on him. He felt vaguely sick. “You were there? When it… Oh, my _ dear-” _

Crowley pulled back to meet Aziraphale’s eyes, not caring that his were already damp and he felt the mental equivalent of teetering on the edge of a great, dark, crevasse because Aziraphale was _ here _ and _ safe _and everything else comes second.

“What if heaven had just fucking lost it and torched the whole place _ with you inside? _I thought…” Crowley swallowed convulsively, and Aziraphale realised his own eyes were burning. 

Crowley was drawn back against Aziraphale, and he pressed his face into the angel’s chest, breathing desperate and mind suddenly wide awake.

“Hush, now, I’m okay. We’re both okay, dear boy.” Crowley could feel the vibrations through Aziraphale’s chest, and he closed his eyes, focused on it. He barely managed to choke back a strangled sob as it cut its way through his throat. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Crowley made a tiny, wrecked sound in the back of his throat. Aziraphale held on to him a little bit tighter and bumped their legs together, hand going instinctively to his hair in hopes of soothing. _ Charred, melting sunglasses, an empty plant mister, a burning Bentley _ and Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut past a blurry sharpness of tears and his own violent imagination. He let himself cling to Crowley, and Crowley took a jagged breath and clung right back.*

*Unknown to the angel but with Crowley’s own brand of desperate clarity, he was also caught up in similar images of blackened books, a sting of sweet, woody cologne, and the taste of smoke burning his throat. 

They stayed like that for a long while, neither stirring nor quite able to fall asleep for their own thinking. Crowley was _ exhausted_, and couldn’t find it in himself to be any amount of self conscious that he probably shouldn’t be sprawled so heavily against Aziraphale’s chest, or that his cheek was pressed into one of the angel’s shoulders. Anyway, Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind.

Aziraphale himself was much more awake. The sky was lightening, and he couldn’t seem to stop thinking. What would he have done if Crowley had actually died? He kind of imagined the world just sort of stopping in the event of Crowley leaving so permanently, and suddenly his chest felt a little tighter with familiar inklings of dread and anxiety. The bookshop wouldn’t feel the same. Too quiet, less like home. 

The sun was starting to crack lines of cream and orange along the horizon when Aziraphale finally broke the silence.

“I thought that'd be the end of us. End of everything.” Crowley shifted a little and hummed around a yawn in response. Aziraphale thought about the airbase for a second, then interrupted himself mid-thought about the Horrible Destruction Of Everything to frown. “Oh, I do hope you know I didn't mean what I said-- that, that I'd never talk to you again if we didn't fix everything? I'm terribly sorry, that must've put quite a bit of pressure on you-"

Crowley snorted, rolling back to face the ceiling. The air around them was slowly brightening with diluted light, and Crowley’s face was cast in sloping shadows, weak sunshine. “It was the end of the world, angel. There was already an insurmountable amount of pressure regardless.”

“Still.” Aziraphale won’t stop frowning- partly out of principle, partly because he was still a little bit scandalised with himself over the whole exchange. Crowley glanced at him and huffed out something caught between a laugh and a sigh. 

“But, hey, everything's fixed now, right? Well, not _ everything_, but- the world’s not going to try to end again for another few millennia, at least.” Crowley’s eyes were blown an almost delirious amber in the melted light, thin wire lines of gold lashes outlining them as they scrunched up in thought.

Aziraphale grimaced. “I wouldn’t put so much faith in heaven’s ability to leave humanity to its own devices. They do like their holy wars up there, I’m afraid.”

“Hell’s pretty fond of the mindless violence aspect.” Crowley sighed. “It’s a shame we can’t pit them against each other and convince them to leave Earth out of it, eh? They’d have a right time of it.”

Quiet smothered them for a moment, and Crowley let his eyes close again. Quite frankly, he was sick of thinking about the destruction both sides would bring in an actual apocalypse, sick of the anxiety, sick of anticipating his own grief. He’d very much prefer to forget about all of that and just lay here in the early morning light with Aziraphale, safe and solid by his side. Fuck Hell, and fuck living in fear. 

“We should probably get some sleep before the sun actually comes up.” Crowley got past another jutting yawn.

“Probably.” Aziraphale agreed quietly.

There was some rustling next to him, and Crowley opened his eyes to look back over at Aziraphale. He was coiled into a ball, illuminated head of messy pale curls tucked against his chest, knees drawn up. Already half asleep in the safety of dawn and their twin chests rising and falling calmly, Crowley rolled back over and tugged Aziraphale’s back flush against his chest. He wound an arm around Aziraphale’s waist, and his hand was promptly stolen and slotted in someone else’s. 

They finally fell asleep as the sky was swallowed by light and the room was lit up in a hazy blue, both warm, happy, and most importantly, _ alive_.

**Author's Note:**

> me, appearing out of a dark alleyway, screaming- "GET SOME REST TALL, DEMONIC CHILD!"
> 
> This entire fic may or may not have been a product of me seeing that clip from the behind the scenes of crowley asleep on the ceiling, and immediately thinking let's rope az into this lmao. Also, the book extract in 4 is from ‘East of Eden’ by John Steinback, because Aziraphale has a fondness for both penguin classics and irony. Anyway, hope you enjoyed this 8000 words of self indulgent crap, tysm for reading <333
> 
> hey if you like hurt!crowley check out my other fic up at the moment, 'Retribution'. Thank you so so much to everyone who's given it kudos and commented already- it means the world to me that people actually enjoyed some of my writing, and you guys are so nice it's crazyyy


End file.
